February
by SilverCascade
Summary: Near visits Wammy's House to see some old friends. Set immediately after canon. One-shot.


**"Tell me everything won't end in death. That everything doesn't end with February. Dead wildflowers wrapped around a crying baby's throat."**  
**- Shane Jones, "Light Boxes"**

* * *

When Near steps outside, the world is a snow globe and his eyes are reflecting shards of glass. It descends lightly at first, but the torrent of translucent crystals doesn't relent as he approaches the massive walled building. When he stops, snow settles on his shoulders, puny wings crafted from cold curls that dissolve to water on his silk shirt. Wedged into two walls is a pronged gate twice his size, quivering and screaming in the light wind: the rust on its limbs looks like blood, he notes. Cracking it open, he slides into the graveyard.

The stump is a few metres away, but he doesn't need to look up to see it; absently, a finger finds a lock of hair and he twists as he thinks. The back field of Wammy's House has not always been a place of death. Once upon a time, when the sun flooded cloudless skies and sweat stuck cotton t-shirts to their torsos, the children would play in the field. Watari knew the benefits of play - something Near always appreciated - and let the children do as they pleased after schooling hours.

To his nine-year-old self, the tree is the largest thing he's ever laid eyes on - it's even taller than Watari! It's silly to assume his thin limbs can scale rough bark and straggling claws, so he doesn't, but watching the others attempt the mammoth task is good, safe fun. The book in his hands, some faded volume with more words than pictures, barely moves as he tries not to openly gape. It's none of his business. But the apple tree ismajestic in its prime, stretching its arms to the sky to soak up the world's goodness, wooden fingers straining to catch sunlight. One week the fruits are are red as Matt's recently-dyed hair, the next, they match his dyed-again green locks. Sometimes Linda will lose sight of him amongst the leaves and worry. Mello's awkward pats don't help, but Matt eventually wakes from his slumber in the shade of the foliage and comforts her with hugs and nose kisses. Near watches all this, absently winding a lock of hair around his finger, and then he blinks. There is no sun on his skin or in the air. There are no friends around. There is no tree.

The stump is almost as wide as he is tall, and now he sees how dangerous it is to have children climbing such a monster. The rings are so faded under the settling snow that he doesn't bother counting them; he knows how old it is anyway. He turns around, glancing at the street, where lamps spill silver into the dark. The night is burgundy in the faint light and the colour of olive seeds in the hazy dark. His toes are slick with mud and snow, but he doesn't notice; he only notices how heavy his feet are, each toe a lead icicle. It takes all his energy to step back from the stump and head to the graves. Though normally he would have to wash his feet immediately, there's no urgency in his step. There is nothing but acceptance every time his foot comes down.

The flakes fall too fast for his eyes to notice each one; only when the cold water drips along his forehead, white-hot hair melting the crystals, does he blink. Snow drips from his thick eyelashes, but he never moves his eyes from the headstones. There are three slight mounds; one for the sinner, two for the martyrs. Scratched into the stone are names: Jeevas, Lawliet, Keehl. Side by side they rest, equal in death as they were never meant to be in life.

Three clashing bouquets sit in his hands; the largest and most vivid and most vile is the one he cradles to his chest, like people on television cradle babies. Near's pupils dilate as he narrows his eyes, before placing the orange lilies on the centre grave. The lilies were not his idea; the florist had suggested white, but the orange ones were uglier.

Beneath the soaking mud there is nothingness. The sinner's body is buried over the sea, and the grave is a caricature of his once-might. It's awful to be be angry at a man so long dead, but he can't help it. He lets the water drip from the cushioned green stems. He leans forward. Cellophane rustles. The fact that the empty grave is larger than the two filled makes him sick.

Crimson carnations wrapped in translucent green paper are rested atop Matt's body with care. Near flinches inwardly, red petals mingling with the colour leaking from the body in the news report: the silence surrounding him echoes with gunshots. He fights the urge to pull back his hands as if they are sentient pokers in a fire. He holds the flowers until the burning is comfortable, then lets them fall. They'd never been friends, not really, but Matt had been good to him. It might've been out of pity, because he couldn't - it didn't matter. Matt had been kind. Near's spidery hand pats the headstone as if it were a shoulder. Matt's loyalty shouldn't have cost him his life; maybe if he'd gotten to the boy before Mello had, he might have lived. Near looks away from the shining granite, ashamed. As he adds the wild rue flowers torn from the morning's walk, he wonders when Matt knew he was going to die.

The blue bouquet, smaller and more refined, involves him kneeling in the hardening snow. If he drops the bluebells and blue violets they'll be crushed by the solid ground: they are the most delicate. Though his knees are numb and his pyjamas are soaked through, it's worth it. There are no words he wants to speak, no thoughts he has left to give. Respect doesn't count anymore.

There is one more grave, but he doesn't plan to visit the founder of this institution. He does not want to see Roger nor the younger children quite yet. The tugs on his arms, the drooling, the steady patter-thud of running feet and falling bodies, and the endless questions.

"Where's Mello? I saved my chocolate for a week for him, but I ate some of it. Do you think he'll be mad? How's Matt doing? He said he'd buy me Mario Party but he hasn't sent anything for ages! He won't even e-mail me anymore... I think Roger might've found out he still talks to us! Ooh, have you seen Linda's new painting? She's working on it right now, if you wanna see! She lets us sit in the back if we're quiet. Did you know her stuff has been in the Tate? So cool."

He doesn't want to face Linda either: it's strange, knowing she is but a few hundred feet from him and unaware of his presence. Near isn't ready to ask questions about her, about the others - Livre, Porror, Christopher, Lena, Scotty, and those whose names he had never heard - and what they were doing with the vast expanse of their lives now that they were free from L's grip. He isn't ready to talk at length about her art or his new persona, or about how they are both coping with the losses of their allies - no, they were _her_ friends, and they were dead. He can't face her. He isn't ready.

But the mask must be slotted over his features soon, and, ignoring the vice-like pinch of the cold on his nose, he opens his mouth and gulps. Near exhales in thin off-white plumes, the air so cold it burns his lungs and brings two wobbling droplets to his eyes. The back of his hand pushes them away, and he blinks furiously. This is selfish, so so selfish, but he allows himself to be. Just once. That's all. His stooped back shudders as he sniffs. Near shoves his hands into his pockets, feeling oddly unlike himself. What now? For the first time, it's a question he can't answer. But he knows something: he doesn't want to be the winner. Heat rises to his nose and throat and he sniffs, sleeve-covered hand wiping skin.

They're gone. It's over.

Skin chafing against the leather string of his sandals make Near's feet glow red. His body shivers but inside Near is still. He'll be in the warmth soon, so it is no matter if his limbs seize or numb: it can be remedied. If only his mind - heart? no, surely it was his mind - could be so easily treated.

A ripple along his thigh, like the buzz of a black fly, pulls him from the cold. He glances at the graves, then turns and leaves the yard with steps that squelch and splatter red-brown his immaculate clothing. The gate squeals in protest when roughly pulled back, old hinges straining against the constraints of wet black walls. Near takes the call when his feet are on concrete.

"You've been gone for more than an hour!" Rester's voice struggles to stay indifferent; the young man then knows Roger has been issuing threats. The looming horror of being fired is the only thing that can turn the collected agent-stroke-bodyguard into an unprofessional mess. It's only fair: he has a family to provide for, after all. "You're not dressed for the weather, and we have no idea where you _are_."

Near makes a sound of agreement, and drowns out the drone of Rester's concerned questions. Spinning slowly, he stares at the graves through the prongs of the gate, visible through a haze of grass stalks that give way to flat mud. There are ghosts staring back at him, or at least two of them are.

L stands on his false grave, hands stuffed into his pocket, sloppy posture meaning his neck cranes up to look at Near. His eyes are dark and hard, but Near doesn't see what they say. Matt sits on his earth bed, knees tucked to his chin with his head dangling in between, a lit cigarette hanging from his lips. Blue-green light strokes his face, and it clicks in Near's mind when the soft beeps and buzzes reach him. Blinking, he turns to the last grave, where a calm sea stares at him. One of Mello's legs is extended as he rests his back against the headstone, his arm slung casually over his other bent leg. Near pushes back a faint bubble of _something_.

What he is seeing is improbable at best, but it feels real: they don't appear translucent, they don't hold any tints that indicate them as unearthly. They don't _look _like ghosts, but what else can they be? No, Mello's flawless face and Matt's slightly smaller stature and L's blank eyes tell Near only one thing. They're dead, all of them, and they'll wait for him. Mello's voice is quiet and then suddenly loud behind his head, telling him he'd better take his _damn sweet time_ before joining them. He never believed the wind could whisper until now. Matt's elbows are in his ribs in a friendly jostle, and he sees L's eyes up close, cold and approving. Life is, for a moment, as it should be.

Near focuses his eyes on them and turns his mind to the phone, where Rester is repeating "Hello? Hello? Near, are you there?" as if it's a mantra that will bring him enlightenment.

"Rester, please. I am on my way back to the hotel," he says calmly, steadying the clack of his chattering teeth. "I'll make it back very soon. Please tell the others not to worry." Before Rester can change his tune and attempt to scold him, he hangs up. The ghosts have not wavered once.

Near's lips flicker into a quick smile before returning to their usual set position. He turns around and walks away, every footstep an assured crunch on the snow-covered pavement.


End file.
